Rilla of Ingleside by Lucy Maud Montgomery (13 ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery
- Performer: 1594624275
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âThe Germans have recaptured Premysl,â said Susan despairingly, looking up from her newspaper, âand now I suppose we will have to begin calling it by that uncivilised name again. Cousin Sophia was in when the mail came and when she heard the news she hove a sigh up from the depths of her stomach, Mrs. Dr. dear, and said, âAh yes, and they will get Petrograd next I have no doubt.â I said to her, âMy knowledge of geography is not so profound as I wish it was but I have an idea that it is quite a walk from Premysl to Petrograd.â Cousin Sophia sighed again and said, âThe Grand Duke Nicholas is not the man I took him to be.â âDo not let him know that,â said I. âIt might hurt his feelings and he has likely enough to worry him as it is. But you cannot cheer Cousin Sophia up, no matter how sarcastic you are, Mrs. Dr. dear. She sighed for the third time and groaned out, âBut the Russians are retreating fast,â and I said, âWell, what of it? They have plenty of room for retreating, have they not?â But all the same, Mrs. Dr. dear, though I would never admit it to Cousin Sophia, I do not like the situation on the eastern front.â
Nobody else liked it either; but all summer the Russian retreat went on âa long-drawn-out agony.
âI wonder if I shall ever again be able to await the coming of the mail with feelings of composureânever to speak of pleasure,â said Gertrude Oliver. âThe thought that haunts me night and day isâwill the Germans smash Russia completely and then hurl their eastern army, flushed with victory, against the western front?â
âThey will not, Miss Oliver dear,â said Susan, assuming the role of prophetess.
âIn the first place, the Almighty will not allow it, in the second, Grand Duke Nicholas, though he may have been a disappointment to us in some respects, knows how to run away decently and in order, and that is a very useful knowledge when Germans are chasing you. Norman Douglas declares he is just luring them on and killing ten of them to one he loses. But I am of the opinion he cannot help himself and is just doing the best he can under the circumstances, the same as the rest of us. So do not go so far afield to borrow trouble, Miss Oliver dear, when there is plenty of it already camping on our very doorstep.â
Walter had gone to Kingsport the first of June. Nan, Di and Faith had gone also to do Red Cross work in their vacation. In mid-July Walter came home for a weekâs leave before going overseas. Rilla had lived through the days of his absence on the hope of that week, and now that it had come she drank every minute of it thirstily, hating even the hours she had to spend in sleep, they seemed such a waste of precious moments. In spite of its sadness, it was a beautiful week, full of poignant, unforgettable hours, when she and Walter had long walks and talks and silences together. He was all her own and she knew that he found strength and comfort in her sympathy and understanding. It was very wonderful to know she meant so much to himâthe knowledge helped her through moments that would otherwise have been unendurable, and gave her power to smileâand even to laugh a little. When Walter had gone she might indulge in the comfort of tears, but not while he was here. She would not even let herself cry at night, lest her eyes should betray her to him in the morning.
On his last evening at home they went together to Rainbow Valley and sat down on the bank of the brook, under the White Lady, where the gay revels of olden days had been held in the cloudless years. Rainbow Valley was roofed over with a sunset of unusual splendour that night; a wonderful grey dusk just touched with starlight followed it; and then came moonshine, hinting, hiding, revealing, lighting up little dells and hollows here, leaving others in dark, velvet shadow.
âWhen I am âsomewhere in France,ââ said Walter, looking around him with eager eyes on all the beauty his soul loved, âI shall remember these still, dewy, moon-drenched places. The balsam of the fir-trees; the peace of those white pools of moonshine; the âstrength of the hillsââ what a beautiful old Biblical phrase that is. Rilla! Look at those old hills around usâthe hills we looked up at as children, wondering what lay for us in the great world beyond them. How calm and strong they are âhow patient and changelessâlike the heart of a good woman. Rilla-my-Rilla, do you know what you have been to me the past year? I want to tell you before I go. I could not have lived through it if it had not been for you, little loving, believing heart.â
Rilla dared not try to speak. She slipped her hand into Walterâs and pressed it hard.
âAnd when Iâm over there, Rilla, in that hell upon earth which men who have forgotten God have made, it will be the thought of you that will help me most. I know youâll be as plucky and patient as you have shown yourself to be this past yearâIâm not afraid for you. I know that no matter what happens, youâll be Rilla-my-Rillaâno matter what happens.â
Rilla repressed tear and sigh, but she could not repress a little shiver, and Walter knew that he had said enough. After a moment of silence, in which each made an unworded promise to each other, he said, âNow we wonât be sober any more. Weâll look beyond the yearsâto the time when the war will be over and Jem and Jerry and I will come marching home and weâll all be happy again.â
âWe wonât beâhappyâin the same way,â said Rilla.
âNo, not in the same way. Nobody whom this war has touched will ever be happy again in quite the same way. But it will be a better happiness, I think, little sisterâa happiness weâve earned. We were very happy before the war, werenât we? With a home like Ingleside, and a father and mother like ours we couldnât help being happy. But that happiness was a gift from life and love; it wasnât really oursâlife could take it back at any time. It can never take away the happiness we win for ourselves in the way of duty. Iâve realised that since I went into khaki. In spite of my occasional funks, when I fall to living over things beforehand, Iâve been happy since that night in May. Rilla, be awfully good to mother while Iâm away. It must be a horrible thing to be a mother in this warâthe mothers and sisters and wives and sweethearts have the hardest times. Rilla, you beautiful little thing, are you anybodyâs sweetheart? If you are, tell me before I go.â
âNo,â said Rilla. Then, impelled by a wish to be absolutely frank with Walter in this talk that might be the last they would ever have, she added, blushing wildly in the moonlight, âbut ifâKenneth Fordâwanted me to beââ
âI see,â said Walter. âAnd Kenâs in khaki, too. Poor little girlie, itâs a bit hard for you all round. Well, Iâm not leaving any girl to break her heart about meâthank God for that.â
Rilla glanced up at the Manse on the hill. She could see a light in Una Meredithâs window. She felt tempted to say somethingâthen she knew she must not. It was not her secret: and, anyway, she did not knowâshe only suspected.
Walter looked about him lingeringly and lovingly. This spot had always been so dear to him. What fun they all had had here lang syne. Phantoms of memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the swinging boughsâJem and Jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys, fishing in the brook and frying trout over the old stone fireplace; Nan and Di and Faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyed childish beauty; Una the sweet and shy, Carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy, sharp-tongued, good-hearted Mary Vanceâthe old Walter that had been himself lying on the grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces of fancy. They were all there around himâhe could see them almost as plainly as he saw Rillaâas plainly as he had once seen the Pied Piper piping down the valley in a vanished twilight. And they said to him, those gay little ghosts of other days, âWe were the children of yesterday, Walterâfight a good fight for the children of to-day and tomorrow.â
âWhere are you, Walter,â cried Rilla, laughing a little. âCome backâ come back.â
Walter came back with a long breath. He stood up and looked about him at the beautiful valley of moonlight, as if to impress on his mind and heart every charm it possessedâthe great dark plumes of the firs against the silvery sky, the stately White Lady, the old magic of the dancing brook, the faithful Tree Lovers, the beckoning, tricksy paths.
âI shall see it so in my dreams,â he said, as he turned away.
They went back to Ingleside. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were there, with Gertrude Oliver, who had come from Lowbridge to say goodbye. Everybody was quite cheerful and bright, but nobody said much about the war being soon over, as they had said when Jem went away. They did not talk about the war at allâand they thought of nothing else. At last they gathered around the piano and sang the grand old hymn:
âOh God, our help in ages past Our hope for years to come. Our shelter from the stormy blast And our eternal home.â
âWe all come back to God in these days of soul-sifting,â said Gertrude to John Meredith. âThere have been many days in the past when I didnât believe in Godânot as Godâonly as the impersonal Great First Cause of the scientists. I believe in Him nowâI have toâthereâs nothing else to fall back on but Godâhumbly, starkly, unconditionally.â
ââOur help in ages pastâââthe same yesterday, to-day and for ever,ââ said the minister gently. âWhen we forget GodâHe remembers us.â
There was no crowd at the Glen Station the next morning to see Walter off. It was becoming a commonplace for a khaki clad boy to board that early morning train after his last leave. Besides his own, only the Manse folk were there, and Mary Vance. Mary had sent her Miller off the week before, with a determined grin, and now considered herself entitled to give expert opinion on how such partings should be conducted.
âThe main thing is to smile and act as if nothing was happening,â she informed the Ingleside group. âThe boys all hate the sob act like poison. Miller told me I wasnât to come near the station if I couldnât keep from bawling. So I got through with my crying beforehand, and at the last I said to him, âGood luck, Miller, and if you come back youâll find I havenât changed any, and if you donât come
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